THE  ARTIST 

A  Drama  Without  Words 

By 
H.  L,  MENCKEN 


SAMUEL   FRENCH 

Incorporated  1898 
THOS.  R.  EDWARDS,  Managing  Director 

25  West  45th  Street  .  New  York  City 
PRICE  50  CENTS 


JPI 

6 


THE  ARTIST 

A  Drama  Without  Words 


By 
H.  L.  MENCKEN 


SAMUEL   FRENCH 
Incorporated  1898 

THOS.  R.  EDWARDS,  Managing  Director 
25  West  45th  Street  .  New  York  City 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  1920,  BY  ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC., 

In  volume,  "A  Book  of  Burlesques," 

BY  H.  It.  MENCKEN 


RIGHTS  RESERVED 

^  ARTIST"  is  fully  protected  under  the  copy- 

right laws  of  the  United  States  of  America,  the 
British  Empire,  including  the  Dominion  of  Canada, 
and  all  countries  subscribing  to  the  Berne  Conven- 
tion, and  all  rights  reserved. 

In  its  present  form  this  play  is  dedicated  to  the 
reading  public  only,  and  no  performance,  representa- 
tion, production,  recitation,  public  reading  or  radio 
broadcasting  may  be  given  except  by  special  arrange- 
ment with  SAMUEL  FRENCH,  25  West  45th  Street,  New 
York,  N.  Y. 

It  may  be  presented  by  amateurs  upon  payment  of 
a  royalty  of  Five  Dollars  for  each  performance,  pay- 
able to  SAMUEL  FRENCH  one  week  before  the  date 
when  the  play  is  given. 

Professional  rates  quoted  on  application  to  SAMUEL 
FRENCH. 


This  play  is  reprinted  by  permission  of  Alfred  A. 
Knopf,  Inc.,  and  H.  Iv.  Mencken,  from  "A  Book  of 
Burlesques,"  published  by  Alfred  A.  Knopf,  Inc. 


THE  ARTIST 


CHARACTERS 

A  Great  Pianist 

A  Janitor 

Six  Music  Critics 

A  Married  Woman 

A  Virgin 

Sixteen  Hundred  and  Forty-three  Other  Women 

Six  Other  Men 

PLACE.— A  city  of  the  United  States. 
TIME. — A  December  afternoon. 


THE  ARTIST 

[During  the  action  of  the  play  not  a  word  is  uttered 
aloud.  All  of  the  speeches  of  the  characters  are  sup- 
posed to  be  unspoken  meditations  only.} 

A  large,  gloomy  hall,  with  many  rows  of  uncushioned, 
uncomfortable  seats,  designed,  it  would  seem,  by  some- 
one misinformed  as  to  the  average  width  of  the  nor- 
mal human  pelvis.  A  number  of  busts  of  celebrated 
composers,  once  white,  but  now  a  dirty  gray,  stand  in 
niches  along  the  walls.  At  one  end  of  the  hall  there 
is  a  bare,  uncarpeted  stage,  with  nothing  on  it  save  a 
grand  piano  and  a  chair.  It  is  raining  outside,  and, 
as  hundreds  of  people  come  crowding  in,  the  air  is 
laden  with  the  mingled  scents  of  umbrellas,  raincoats, 
goloshes,  cosmetics,  perfumery  and  wet  hair. 

At  eight  minutes  past  four,  THE  JANITOR,  after 
smoothing  his  hair  with  his  hands  and  putting  on  a 
pair  of  detachable  cuffs,  emerges  from  the  wings  and 
crosses  the  stage,  his  shoes  squeaking  hideously  at  each 
step.  Arriving  at  the  piano,  he  opens  it  with  solemn 
slowness.  The  job  seems  so  absurdly  trivial,  even  to 
so  mean  an  understanding,  that  he  can't  refrain  from 


THE  ARTIST 

glorifying  It  with  a  bit  of  hocus-pocus.  This  takes  the 
form  of  a  careful  adjustment  of  a  mysterious  some- 
thing within  the  instrument.  He  reaches  in,  pauses  a 
moment  as  if  in  doubt,  reaches  in  again,  and  then  per- 
mits a  faint  smile  of  conscious  sapience  and  efficiency 
to  illuminate  his  face.  All  of  this  accomplished,  he 
tiptoes  back  to  the  wings,  his  shoes  again  squeaking. 

THE  JANITOR.  Now  all  of  them  people  think  I'm  the 
professor's  tuner.  [The  thought  gives  him  such  de- 
light that,  for  the  moment,  his  brain  is  numbed.  Then 
he  proceeds.]  I  guess  them  tuners  make  pretty  good 
money.  I  wish  I  could  get  the  hang  of  the  trick.  It 
looks  easy.  [By  this  time  he  has  disappeared  in  the 
wings  and  the  stage  is  again  a  desert.  Two  or  three 
women,  far  back  in  the  hall,  start  a  half-hearted  hand- 
clapping.  It  dies  out  at  once.  The  noise  of  rustling 
programs  and  shuffling  feet  succeeds  it.] 

FOUR  HUNDRED  OF  THE  WOMEN.  Oh,  I  do  certainly 
hope  he  plays  that  lovely  Valse  Poupee  as  an  encore ! 
They  say  he  does  it  better  than  Bloomfield-Zeisler. 

ONE  OF  THE  CRITICS.  I  hope  the  animal  doesn't  pull 
any  encore  numbers  that  I  don't  recognize.  All  of 
these  people  will  buy  the  paper  to-morrow  morning 
just  to  find  out  what  they  have  heard.  It's  infernally 
embarrassing  to  have  to  ask  the  manager.  The  public 

[2] 


THE  ARTIST 

expects  a  music  critic  to  be  a  sort  of  walking  the- 
matic catalogue.  The  public  is  an  ass. 

THE  six  OTHER  MEN.  Oh,  Lord !  What  a  way  to 
spend  an  afternoon! 

A  HUNDRED  OF  THE  WOMEN.  I  wonder  if  he's  as  hand- 
some as  Paderewski. 

ANOTHER  HUNDRED  OF  THE  WOMEN.      I  WOnder  if  he's 

as  gentlemanly  as  Josef  Hofmann. 

STILL  ANOTHER  HUNDRED  WOMEN.      I  WOnder  if  he's  as 

fascinating  as  De  Pachmann. 

YET  OTHER  HUNDREDS.  I  wonder  if  he  has  dark  eyes. 
You  never  can  tell  by  those  awful  photographs  in  the 
newspapers. 

HALF  A  DOZEN  WOMEN.  I  wonder  if  he  can  really  play 
the  piano. 

THE  CRITIC  AFORESAID.  What  a  hell  of  a  wait !  These 
rotten  piano-thumping  immigrants  deserve  a  hard  call- 
down.  But  what's  the  use  ?  The  piano  manufacturers 
bring  them  over  here  to  wallop  their  pianos — and  the 
piano  manufacturers  are  not  afraid  to  advertise.  If 
you  knock  them  too  hard  you  have  a  nasty  business- 
office  row  on  your  hands. 

[3] 


THE  ARTIST 

ONE  OF  THE  MEN.  If  they  allowed  smoking,  it 
wouldn't  be  so  bad. 

ANOTHER  MAN.  I  wonder  if  that  woman  across  the 
aisle  

[THE  GREAT  PIANIST  bounces  upon  the  stage  so  sud- 
denly that  he  is  bowing  in  the  center  before  anyone 
thinks  to  applaud.  He  makes  three  stiff  bows.  At 
the  second  the  applause  "begins,  swelling  at  once  to  a 
roar.  He  steps  up  to  the  piano,  bows  three  times 
more,  and  then  sits  down.  He  hunches  his  shoulders, 
reaches  for  the  pedals  with  his  feet,  spreads  out  his 
hands  and  waits  for  the  clapper-clawing  to  cease.  He 
is  an  undersized,  paunchy  East  German,  with  hair  the 
color  of  wet  hay,  and  an  extremely  pallid  complexion. 
Talcum  powder  hides  the  fact  that  his  nose  is  shiny \ 
and  somewhat  pink.  His  eyebrows  are  carefully  pen- 
ciled and  there  are  artificial  shadows  under  his  eyes. 
His  face  is  absolutely  expressionless.} 

THE  VIRGIN.     Oh ! 

THE  MARRIED  WOMEN.       Oh  ! 

THE  OTHER  WOMEN.  Oh!  How  dreadfully  hand- 
some! 

THE  VIRGIN.  Oh,  such  eyes,  such  depth!  How  he 
must  have  suffered!  I'd  like  to  hear  him  play  the 
Prelude  in  D  flat  major.  It  would  drive  you  crazy! 

[4] 


THE  ARTIST 

A  HUNDRED  OTHER  WOMEN.  I  certainly  do  hope  he 
plays  some  Schumann. 

OTHER  WOMEN.  What  beautiful  hands!  I  could  kiss 
them! 

[THE  GREAT  PIANIST,  throwing  back  his  head,  strikes 
the  massive  opening  chords  of  a  Beethoven  sonata. 
There  is  a  sudden  hush  and  each  note  is  heard  clearly. 
The  tempo  of  the  first  movement,  which  begins  after 
a  grand  pause,  is  allegro  con  brio,  and  the  first  sub- 
ject is  given  out  in  a  sparkling  cascade  of  sound.  But, 
despite  the  buoyancy  of  the  music,  there  is  an  unmis- 
takable undercurrent  of  melancholy  in  the  playing. 
The  audience  doesn't  fail  to  notice  it.] 

THE  VIRGIN.  Oh,  perfect !  I  could  love  him !  Pade- 
rewski  played  it  like  a  fox  trot.  What  poetry  he  puts 
into  it !  I  can  see  a  soldier  lover  marching  off  to  war. 

ONE  OF  THE  CRITICS.  The  ass  is  dragging  it.  Doesn't 
con  brio  mean — well,  what  the  devil  does  it  mean?  I 
forget.  I  must  look  it  up  before  I  write  the  notice. 
Somehow,  brio  suggests  cheese.  Anyhow,  Pachmann 
plays  it  a  damn  sight  faster.  It's  safe  to  say  that,  at 
all  events. 

THE  MARRIED  WOMAN.  Oh,  I  could  listen  to  that 
sonata  all  day !  The  poetry  he  puts  into  it — even  into 

[  5  ] 


THE  ARTIST 

the  allegro!  Just  think  what  the  andante  will  be!  I 
like  music  to  be  sad. 

ANOTHER  WOMAN.     What  a  sob  he  gets  into  it ! 

MANY  OTHER  WOMEN.      HOW  exquisite  ! 

THE  GREAT  PIANIST.  [Gathering  himself  together  for 
the  difficult  development  section.}  That  American 
near-beer  will  be  the  death  of  me !  I  wonder  what  they 
put  in  it  to  give  it  its  gassy  taste.  And  the  so-called 
real  beer  they  sell  over  here — du  heiliger  Herr  Jesu! 
Even  Bremen  would  be  ashamed  of  it.  In  Miinchen 
the  police  would  take  a  hand.  [Aiming  for  the  first 
and  second  Cs  above  the  staff,  he  accidentally  strikes 
the  C  sharps  instead  and  has  to  transpose  three  meas- 
ures to  get  back  into  the  key.  The  effect  is  harrowing, 
and  he  gives  his  audience  a  swift  glance  of  apprehen- 
sion.} 

TWO  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTY  WOMEN.     What  new  beauties 

he  gets  out  of  it ! 

A  MAN.     He  can  tickle  the  ivories,  all  right,  all  right ! 

A  CRITIC.  Well,  at  any  rate,  he  doesn't  try  to  imitate 
Paderewski. 

THE  GREAT  PIANIST.     [Relieved  by  the  non-appearance 

of  the  hisses  he  expected.}   Well,  it's  lucky  for  me  that 

I'm  not  in  Leipzig  to-day!     But  in  Leipzig  an  artist 

[6] 


THE  ARTIST 

runs  no  risks :  the  beer  is  pure.  The  authorities  see  to 
that.  The  worse  enemy  of  technic  is  biliousness,  and 
biliousness  is  sure  to  follow  bad  beer.  [He  gets  to 
the  coda  at  last  and  takes  it  at  a  somewhat  livelier 
pace.] 

THE  VIRGIN.  How  I  envy  the  woman  he  loves !  How 
it  would  thrill  me  to  feel  his  arms  about  me — to  be 
drawn  closer,  closer,  closer!  I  would  give  up  the 
whole  world !  What  are  conventions,  prejudices,  legal 
forms,  morality,  after  all  ?  Vanities !  Love  is  be- 
yond and  above  them  all — and  art  is  love !  I  think  I 
must  be  a  pagan. 

THE  GREAT  PIANIST.  And  the  herring!  Good  God, 
what  herring!  These  barbarous  Americans  — 

THE  VIRGIN.  Really,  I  am  quite  indecent!  I  should 
blush,  I  suppose.  But  love  is  never  ashamed. — How 
people  misunderstand  me! 

THE  MARRIED  WOMAN.  I  wonder  if  he's  faithful.  The 
chances  are  against  it.  I  never  heard  of  a  man  who 
was.  [An  agreeable  melancholy  overcomes  her  and 
she  gives  herself  up  to  the  mood  without  thought.] 

THE  GREAT  PIANIST.  I  wonder  whatever  became  of 
that  girl  in  Dresden.  Every  time  I  think  of  her,  she 
suggests  pleasant  thoughts — good  beer,  a  fine  band, 

[  7  ] 


THE  ARTIST 

Gemutlichkeit.  I  must  have  been  in  love  with  her — 
not  much,  of  course,  but  just  enough  to  make  things 
pleasant.  And  not  a  single  letter  from  her!  I  sup- 
pose she  thinks  I'm  starving  to  death  over  here — or 
tuning  pianos.  Well,  when  I  get  back  with  the  money 
there'll  be  a  shock  for  her.  A  shock — but  not  a 
Pfennig ! 

THE  MARRIED  WOMAN.  [Her  emotional  coma  ended.] 
Still,  you  can  hardly  blame  him.  There  must  be  a 
good  deal  of  temptation  for  a  great  artist.  All  of 
these  frumps  here  would 

THE  VIRGIN.  Ah,  how  dolorous,  how  exquisite  is  love ! 
How  small  the  world  would  seem  if 

THE  MARRIED  WOMAN.  Of  course,  you  could  hardly 
call  such  old  scarecrows  temptations.  But  still 

[THE  GREAT  PIANIST  comes  to  the  last  measure  of  the 
coda — a  passage  of  almost  Haydnesque  clarity  and 
spirit.  As  he  strikes  the  broad  chord  of  the  tonic 
there  comes  a  roar  of  applause.  He  arises,  moves  a 
step  or  two  down  the  stage,  and  makes  a  series  of  low 
bows,  his  hands  to  his  heart.] 

THE  GREAT  PIANIST.  [Bowing.]  I  wonder  why  the 
American  women  always  wear  raincoats  to  piano  re- 
citals. Even  when  the  sun  is  shining  brightly,  one 

[8] 


THE  ARTIST 

sees  hundreds  of  them.  What  a  disagreeable  smell 
they  give  to  the  hall.  [More  applause  and  more  bows.] 
An  American  audience  always  smells  of  rubber  and 
lilies-of -the- valley.  How  different  in  London !  There 
an  audience  always  smells  of  soap.  In  Paris  it  re- 
minds you  of  sachet  bags — and  lingerie.  [The  ap- 
plause ceases  and  he  returns  to  the  piano.]  And  now 
comes  that  verfluchte  adagio.  [As  he  begins  to  play, 
a  deathlike  silence  falls  upon  the  hall.] 

ONE  OF  THE  CRITICS.     What  rotten  pedaling! 

ANOTHER  CRITIC.  A  touch  like  a  xylophone  player,  but 
he  knows  how  to  use  his  feet.  That  suggests  a  good 
line  for  the  notice — "  he  plays  better  with  his  feet  than 
with  his  hands,"  or  something  like  that.  I'll  have  to 
think  it  over  and  polish  it  up. 

ONE  OF  THE  OTHER  MEN.  Now  comes  some  more  of 
that  awful  classical  stuff. 

THE  VIRGIN.  Suppose  he  can't  speak  English?  But 
that  wouldn't  matter.  Nothing  matters.  Love  is  be- 
yond and  above 

six  HUNDRED  WOMEN.     Oh,  how  beautiful ! 

THE  MARRIED  WOMAN.      Perfect! 

[9] 


THE  ARTIST 

THE  DEAN  OF  THE  CRITICS.  [Sinking  quickly  into  the 
slumber  which  always  overtakes  him  during  the 
adagio.]  C-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h ! 

THE  YOUNGEST  CRITIC.  There  is  that  old  fraud  asleep 
again.  And  to-morrow  he'll  print  half  a  column  of 
vapid  reminiscence  and  call  it  criticism.  It's  a  won- 
der his  paper  stands  for  him.  Because  he  once  heard 
Liszt,  he  ... 

THE  GREAT  PIANIST.  That  plump  girl  over  there  on 
the  left  is  not  so  bad.  As  for  the  rest,  I  beg  to  be 
excused.  The  American  women  have  no  more  shape 
than  so  many  matches.  They  are  too  tall  and  too  thin. 
I  like  a  nice  rubbery  armful — like  that  Dresden  girl. 
Or  that  harpist  in  Moscow — the  girl  with  the  Pilsner 
hair.  Let  me  see,  what  was  her  name  ?  Oh,  Fritzi,  to 
be  sure — but  her  last  name?  Schmidt?  Kraus? 
Meyer?  I'll  have  to  try  to  think  of  it,  and  send  her  a 
post-card. 

THE  MARRIED  WOMAN.     What  delicious  flutclike  tones ! 

ONE  OF  THE  WOMEN.  If  Beethoven  could  only  be  here 
to  hear  it!  He  would  cry  for  very  joy!  Maybe  he 
does  hear  it.  Who  knows?  I  believe  he  does.  I  am 
sure  he  does. 


THE  ARTIST 

[THE  GREAT  PIANIST  reaches  the  end  of  the  adagio, 
and  there  is  another  burst  of  applause,  which  awakens 

THE  DEAN  OF  THE  CRITICS.] 

THE  DEAN  OF  THE  CRITICS.  Oh,  piffle!  Compared  to 
Gottschalk,  the  man  is  an  amateur.  Let  him  go  back 
to  the  conservatory  for  a  couple  of  years. 

ONE  OF  THE  MEN.  [Looking  at  his  program.]  Next 
comes  the  shirt-so.  I  hope  it  has  some  tune  in  it. 

THE  VIRGIN.  The  adagio  is  love's  agony,  but  the 
scherzo  is  love  triumphant.  What  beautiful  eyes  he 
has !  And  how  pale  he  is ! 

THE  GREAT  PIANIST.  {Resuming  his  grim  toil.}  Well, 
there's  half  of  it  over.  But  this  scherzo  is  ticklish 
business.  That  horrible  evening  in  Prague — will  I 
ever  forget  it?  Those  hisses — and  the  papers  next 
day! 

ONE  OF  THE  MEN.  Go  it,  professor !  That's  the  best 
you've  done  yet ! 

ONE  OF  THE  CRITICS.      Too  f  ast ! 
ANOTHER  CRITIC.      Too  slow  ! 

A  YOUNG  GIRL.  My,  but  ain't  the  professor  just  full  of 
talent ! 


THE  ARTIST 

THE  GREAT  PIANIST.  Well,  so  far  no  accident  [He 
negotiates  a  difficult  passage,  and  plays  it  triumphantly, 
but  at  some  expenditure  of  cold  perspiration.}  What 
a  way  for  a  man  to  make  a  living ! 

THE  VIRGIN.  What  passion  he  puts  into  it !  His  soul 
is  in  his  finger-tips. 

A  CRITIC.     A  human  pianola ! 

THE  GREAT  PIANIST.  This  scherzo  always  fetches  the 
women.  I  can  hear  them  draw  long  breaths.  That 
plump  girl  is  getting  pale.  Well,  why  shouldn't  she? 
I  suppose  I'm  about  the  best  pianist  she  has  ever  heard 
— or  ever  will  hear.  What  people  can  see  in  that  Hof- 
mann  fellow  I  never  could  imagine.  In  Chopin, 
Schumann,  Grieg,  you  might  fairly  say  he's  pretty 
good.  But  it  takes  an  artist  to  play  Beethoven.  {He 
rattles  on  to  the  end  of  the  sherzo  and  there  is 
more  applause.  Then  he  dashes  into  the  finale.] 

THE  DEAN  OF  THE  CRITICS.      Too  loud  !      Too  loud  !      It 

sounds  like  an  ash-cart  going  down  an  alley.  But  what 
can  you  expect?  Piano-playing  is  a  lost  art.  Pade- 
rewski  ruined  it. 

THE   GREAT    PIANIST.       I    OUght   to   clear   20O,OOO   gold- 

marks  by  this  tournee.    If  it  weren't  for  those  thieving 

agents  and  hotel-keepers,  I'd  make  300,000.    Just  think 

[    12] 


THE  ARTIST 

of  it — twenty- four  marks  a  day  for  a  room!  That's 
the  way  these  Americans  treat  a  visiting  artist!  The 
country  is  worse  than  Bulgaria.  I  was  treated  better 
at  Bucharest.  Well,  it  won't  last  forever.  As  soon 
as  I  get  enough  of  their  money  they'll  see  me  no  more. 
Vienna  is  the  place  to  settle  down.  A  nice  studio  at 
fifty  marks  a  month — and  the  life  of  a  gentleman. 
What  was  the  name  of  that  little  red-cheeked  girl  at 
the  cafe  in  the  Franzjosefstrasse — that  girl  with  the 
gold  tooth  and  the  green  stockings?  I'll  have  to  look 
her  up. 

THE  VIRGIN.  What  an  artist!  What  a  master! 
What  a  - 

THE  MARRIED  WOMAN.  Has  he  really  suffered,  or  is  it 
just  intuition? 

THE  GREAT  PIANIST.  No,  marriage  is  a  waste  of 
money.  Let  the  other  fellow  marry  her.  [He  ap- 
proaches the  closing  measures  of  the  finale.]  And 
now  for  a  breathing  spell  and  a  swallow  of  beer. 
American  beer!  Bah!  But  it's  better  than  nothing. 
The  Americans  drink  water.  Cattle !  Animals !  Ach, 
Munchen,  wie  bist  du  so  schdn!  [As  he  concludes 
there  is  a  whirlwind  of  applause  and  he  is  forced  to 
bow  again  and  again.  Finally,  he  is  permitted  to  re- 
tire, and  the  audience  prepares  to  spend  the  short  in- 
[  13  ] 


.• 


THE  ARTIST 

termission  in  whispering,  grunting,  wriggling,  scraping 
its  feet,  rustling  its  programs  and  gaping  at  hats.  THE 
six  MUSIC  CRITICS  and  six  OTHER  MEN,  their  lips 
parched  and  their  eyes  staring,  gallop  for  the  door. 
As  THE  GREAT  PIANIST  comes  from  the  stage,  THE 
JANITOR  meets  him  with  a  large  seidel  of  needle-beer. 
He  seizes  it  eagerly  and  downs  it  at  a  gulp.] 

THE  JANITOR.  My,  but  them  professors  can  put  the 
stuff  away! 

CURTAIN 


r  14 1 


